these for the most part glimmered provokingly through the glass
doors of their tall cases. I read their titles longingly,
breathing on every accessible pane of glass, for I dared not
attempt to open the doors, with the enemy encamped so near. In
the window, though, on a high sort of desk, there lay, all by
itself, a most promising-looking book, gorgeously bound. I
raised the leaves by one corner, and like scent from a pot-pourri
jar there floated out a brief vision of blues and reds, telling
of pictures, and pictures all highly coloured! Here was the
right sort of thing at last, and my afternoon would not be
entirely wasted. I inclined an ear to the door by which I had
entered. Like the brimming tide of a full-fed river the grand,
eternal, inexhaustible clothes-problem bubbled and eddied and
surged along. It seemed safe enough. I slid the book off its
desk with some difficulty, for it was very fine and large, and
staggered with it to the hearthrug--the only fit and proper place
for books of quality, such as this.

They were excellent hearthrugs in that house; soft and wide, with
the thickest of pile, and one's knees sank into them most
comfortably. When I got the book open there was a difficulty at
first in making the great stiff pages lie down. Most
fortunately the coal-scuttle was actually at my elbow, and it was
easy to find a flat bit of coal to lay on the refractory page.
Really, it was just as if everything had been arranged for me.
This was not such a bad sort of house after all.

The beginnings of the thing were gay borders--scrolls and strap-
work and diapered backgrounds, a maze of colour, with small
misshapen figures clambering cheerily up and down everywhere.